Marianne is stuck in a loveless, unhappy marriage. After forty-one years, she has reached her limit, and one evening in Paris she decides to take action. Following a dramatic moment on the banks of the Seine, Marianne leaves her life behind and sets out for the coast of Brittany, also known as “the end of the world.”
Here she meets a cast of colorful and unforgettable locals who surprise her with their warm welcome, and the natural ease they all seem to have, taking pleasure in life’s small moments. And, as the parts of herself she had long forgotten return to her in this new world, Marianne learns it’s never too late to begin the search for what life should have been all along.
With all the buoyant charm that made The Little Paris Bookshop a beloved bestseller, The Little French Bistro is a tale of second chances and a delightful embrace of the joys of life in France.
|Product dimensions:||5.10(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.00(d)|
|Age Range:||8 - 12 Years|
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***
It was the first decision she had ever made on her own, the very first time she was able to determine the course of her life.
Marianne decided to die. Here and now, down below in the waters of the Seine, late on this grey day. On her trip to Paris. There was not a star in the sky, and the Eiffel Tower was but a dim silhouette in the hazy smog. Paris emitted a roar, with a constant rumble of scooters and cars and the murmur of Métro trains moving deep in the guts of the city.
The water was cool, black and silky. The Seine would carry her on a quiet bed of freedom to the sea. Tears ran down her cheeks; strings of salty tears. Marianne was smiling and weeping at the same time. Never before had she felt so light, so free, so happy. ‘It’s up to me,’ she whispered. ‘This is up to me.’
She took off the shoes she had bought fifteen years ago – the shoes she had needed to resole so many times. She had purchased them in secret and at full price. Lothar had told her off when he first found out, then gave her a dress to go with them. The dress was bought directly from a factory, and was reduced due to a weaving fault; a grey dress with grey flowers on it. She was wearing that too today.
Her final today. Time had seemed infinite when she still had many years and decades ahead of her. A book waiting to be written: as a girl, that was how she had seen her future life. Now she was sixty, and the pages were blank. Infinity had passed like one long continuous day.
She lined up the shoes neatly on the bench beside her, before having second thoughts and placing them on the ground. She didn’t want to dirty the bench – a pretty woman might get a stain on her skirt and suffer embarrassment as a result. She tried to ease off her wedding ring but didn’t succeed, so she stuck her finger in her mouth and eventually the ring came off. There was a band of white skin where it had been.
A homeless man was sleeping on a bench on the other side of the street that ran across the Pont Neuf. He was wearing a striped top, and Marianne was grateful that his back was turned.
She laid the ring beside her shoes. Someone was bound to find it and live for a few days from the proceeds of pawning it. They could buy a baguette, a bottle of pastis, some salami; something fresh, not food from the bin for once. Maybe a newspaper to keep themselves warm.
‘No more food past its sell-by date,’ she said. Lothar used to put crosses next to the special offers in the weekly newspaper inserts, the way other people ticked the TV programmes they wanted to watch. Saturday – Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Sunday – True Detective. For Lothar it was: Monday – Angel Delight past its best- before date. They ate the items he marked.
Marianne closed her eyes. Lothar Messmann, ‘Lotto’ to his friends, was an artillery sergeant major who looked after his men. He and Marianne lived in a house in a cul-de-sac in Celle, Germany, with a lattice fence that ran along the side of the turning bay.
Lothar looked good for his age. He loved his job, loved his car and loved television. He would sit on the sofa with his dinner tray on the wooden coffee table in front of him, the remote control in his left hand, a fork in his right, and the volume turned up high, as an artillery officer needed it to be.
‘No more, Lothar,’ whispered Marianne. She clapped her hands to her mouth. Might someone have overheard her?
She unbuttoned her coat. Maybe it would keep someone else warm, even if she had mended the lining so often that it had become a crazy multicoloured patchwork. Lothar always brought home little hotel shampoo bottles and sewing kits from his business trips to Bonn and Berlin. The sewing kits contained black, white and red thread.
Who needs red thread? thought Marianne as she began to fold up the light-brown coat, edge to edge, the way she used to fold Lothar’s handkerchiefs and the towels she ironed. Not once in her adult life had she worn red. ‘The colour of whores,’ her mother had hissed. She had slapped Marianne when she was eleven for coming home in a red scarf she had picked up somewhere. It had smelled of floral perfume.
Earlier that evening, up in Montmartre, Marianne had seen a woman crouching down over the gutter. Her skirt had ridden up her legs, and she was wearing red shoes. When the woman stood up, Marianne saw that the make-up around her bloodshot eyes was badly smeared. ‘Just a drunken whore,’ someone in the tour party had remarked. Lothar had restrained Marianne when she made to go over to the woman. ‘Don’t make a laughing stock of yourself, Annie.’
Lothar had stopped her from helping the woman and tugged her into the restaurant where the coach tour organisers had booked them a table. Marianne had glanced back over her shoulder until the French tour guide said, with a shake of her head, ‘Je connais la chanson – the same old story, but she can only blame herself.’ Lothar had nodded, and Marianne had imagined herself crouching there in the gutter. A need for escape had been building in her for some time, but that was the last straw – and now she was standing here.
She had left even before the starter had arrived, because she could no longer bear to sit there and say nothing. Lothar hadn’t noticed; he was caught up in the same conversation he had been having for the past twelve hours with a cheerful widow from Burgdorf. The woman kept squeaking, ‘That’s amazing!’ to whatever Lothar said. Her red bra was showing through her white blouse.
Marianne hadn’t even been jealous, just weary. Many women had succumbed to Lothar’s charms over the years. Marianne had left the restaurant and had drifted further and further until she found herself standing in the middle of the Pont Neuf.
Lothar. It would have been easy to blame him, but it wasn’t that straightforward.
‘You’ve only got yourself to blame, Annie,’ whispered Marianne.
She thought back to her wedding day in May forty-one years ago. Her father had watched, propped on his walking stick, as she had waited hour after hour in vain for her husband to ask her to dance.
‘You’re resilient, my girl,’ he had said in a strained voice, weak from cancer. She had stood there freezing in her thin white dress, not daring to move a muscle. She hadn’t wanted it all to turn out to be a dream and come grinding to a halt if she made a fuss.
‘Promise me you’ll be happy,’ her father had asked her, and Marianne had said yes. She was nineteen. Her father died two days after the wedding.
That promise had proved to be one big lie.
Marianne shook the folded coat, flung it to the ground and tram- pled on it. ‘No more! It’s all over! It’s over!’ She felt brave as she stamped on the coat one last time, but her exhilaration subsided as quickly as it had come. She picked up the coat and laid it on the arm of the bench.
Only herself to blame.
There was nothing more she could take off. She didn’t own any jewellery or a hat. She had no possessions apart from her shabby handbag containing a Paris guidebook, a few sachets of salt and sugar, a hairclip, her identity card and her coin purse. She placed the bag next to the shoes and the ring. Then she began to clamber onto the parapet.
First she rolled onto her tummy and pulled her other leg up, but she nearly slid back down. Her heart was pounding, her pulse was racing and the rough sandstone scraped her knees. Her toes found a crack, and she pushed herself upwards. She’d made it. She sat down and swung her feet over the other side.
Now she simply had to push off and let herself fall. She couldn’t possibly mess this up.
Marianne thought of the mouth of the Seine near Honfleur, through which her body would sail after drifting past locks and riverbanks and then float out to sea. She imagined the waves spin- ning her around, as if she were dancing to a tune that only she and the sea could hear. Honfleur, Erik Satie’s birthplace. She loved his music; she loved all kinds of music. Music was like a film that she watched on the back of her closed eyelids, and Satie’s music conjured up images of the sea, even though she had never been to the seaside.
‘I love you, Erik, I love you,’ she whispered. She had never spoken those words to any man other than Lothar. When had he last told her that he loved her? Had he ever told her?
Marianne waited for fear to come, but it didn’t.
Death is not free. Its price is life. What’s my life worth?
A bad deal for the devil. He’s only got himself to blame.
She hesitated as she braced her hands hard against the stone parapet and slid forward, suddenly thinking of an orchid she had found among the rubbish many months ago. She’d spent half a year tending and singing to it, but now she would never see it flower. Then she pushed off with both hands.
Her jump became a fall, and falling forced her arms above her head. As she fell into the wind, she thought of the life insurance policy and how it would not pay out for a suicide. A loss of 124,563 euros. Lothar would be beside himself.
A good deal after all.
With this in mind, she hit the ice-cold Seine with a sense of joyous abandon that faded into profound shame as she sank and her grey flowery dress enveloped her head. She tried desperately to pull down the hem so no one would see her bare legs, but then she gave up and spread her arms, opened her mouth wide and filled her lungs with water.
Dying was like floating. Marianne leaned back. It was so wonderful. The happiness didn’t stop, and you could swallow it. She gulped it down.
See, Dad. A promise is a promise.
She saw an orchid, a purple bloom, and everything was music. When a shadow bent over her, she recognised death. It wore her own face at first, the face of a girl grown old – a girl with bright eyes and brown hair.
Death’s mouth was warm. Then its beard scratched her, and its lips pressed repeatedly on hers. Marianne tasted onion soup and red wine, cigarettes and cinnamon. Death sucked at her. It licked her; it was hungry. She struggled to break free.
Two strong hands settled on her bosom. Feebly she tried to force open the cold fingers that, little by little, were cracking open her chest. A kiss. Cold seeped into her throat. Marianne opened her eyes wide, her mouth gaped and she spewed out dark, dirty water. She reared up with a long moan, and as she gasped for air, the pain hit her like a keen blade, slicing her lungs to shreds. And so loud! Everything was so loud!
Where was the music? Where was the girl? Where was the happiness? Had she spat it out?
Marianne slumped back onto the hard ground. Death hit her in the face. She stared up into two sky-blue eyes, coughed and fought for air. Feebly she raised her arm and gave death a limp slap.
Death talked to her insistently – asking a series of quick-fire questions as he pulled her into a sitting position. Marianne gave him another slap. He struck back immediately, but not so hard this time. No, in fact he caressed her cheek.
She raised her hands to her face. How had this come to be?
‘How?’ Her voice was a muffled croak.
It was so cold. And this roaring noise! Marianne looked left, then right, then at her hands, which had turned green from clutching the damp grass. The Pont Neuf was only a few yards away. She was lying beside a tent on the Rive Droite, and the hum of Paris filled the air. And she was not dead. Not. Dead. Her stomach hurt, as did her lungs. Everything hurt, even her hair, which dangled wet and heavy on her shoulders. Her heart, her head, her soul, her belly, her cheeks – everything ached.
‘Not dead?’ she spluttered in despair.
The man in the striped top smiled, but then his smile faded behind a cloud of anger. He pointed to the river, tapped his fore- head with his finger and gestured at his bare feet.
‘Why?’ She wanted to scream at him, but her voice disintegrated into a hoarse whisper. ‘Why did you do it?’
He raised his arms above his head to illustrate a dive, and pointed to Marianne, the Seine and himself. He shrugged, as if to say, What else could I do?
‘I had . . . a reason, many reasons! You had no right to steal my death from me. Are you God? No, you can’t be or else I’d be dead!’
The man stared at her from under thick black eyebrows as if he understood. He pulled his wet top over his head and wrung it out.
His eyes settled on the birthmark on Marianne’s left breast, which was visible through the buttons of her dress that had come undone. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. Panic-stricken, she pulled at her dress with one hand. For her whole life she had hidden the ugly birthmark – a rare pigment disorder, shaped like fiery flames – under tightly buttoned blouses and high necklines. She only ever went swimming at night, when no one could see her. Her mother had called the birthmark ‘a witch’s mark’, and Lothar had called it ‘a thing of the devil’. He had never touched it and had always closed his eyes when they were intimate.
Then she noticed her bare legs. She tried desperately to tug down the wet hem of her dress and simultaneously do up the buttons to cover her chest. She knocked away the man’s hand as he offered to help her to her feet, and stood up. She smoothed her dress, which clung heavily to her body. Her hair smelled of brackish water. She staggered uncertainly towards the wall of the embankment. Too low. Too low to throw herself off. She would hurt herself but wouldn’t die.
‘Madame!’ the man begged in a firm voice, and reached out to her again. She rebuffed his hand once more and, eyes closed, swung wildly at his face and his arms, but her fists encountered only air. Then she kicked out, but he avoided her blows without retreating. Onlookers must have thought they were lovers perform- ing a tragicomic dance.
‘Mine!’ she yelled with each kick. ‘My death was mine and no one else’s. You had no right to steal it from me!’
‘Madame!’ he said again, encircling Marianne with both arms.
He held her tight until she stopped kicking and finally leaned, exhausted, against his shoulder. He brushed the hair from her face with fingertips as rough as straw. He smelled of sleepless nights and the Seine, and of apples lying in the warm sun on a wooden shelf. He began to rock her in his arms. She had never been rocked so softly before. Marianne began to weep. She hid herself in the stranger’s arms, and he continued to hold her as she wept for her life and for her death.
‘Mais non, non.’ The man pushed her away a little, lifted her chin and said, ‘Come with me.’
He pulled her after him. Marianne felt unbelievably weak, and the rough stones hurt her bare feet. Refusing to let go of her hand, the man drew her up the slope to the Pont Neuf.
When they reached the bridge, the stranger shooed away a couple of tramps who were inspecting two pairs of shoes: Marianne’s pumps and a mismatched pair of men’s boots. One of the homeless men was clutching Marianne’s coat to his chest, while the other one, who was wearing a woolly hat, pulled a face as he bit her wedding ring. The taller of the two took out a mobile phone, while the smaller one held out the ring to Marianne.
Now Marianne began to tremble. The shivers rose up from the depths of her body and swept through her veins. She knocked the ring out of the tramp’s hand and attempted to climb onto the parapet again, but the three men jumped forward as one to restrain her. In their eyes Marianne saw pity, and a fear of being accused of something.
‘Get your hands off me!’ she shouted. None of them slackened his grip, and reluctantly she allowed them to guide her to the bench. The taller man laid his heavy coat around her shoulders, and the other scratched his hat and then knelt down to dry her feet with the sleeves of his jacket.
Her saviour was making a phone call. The other homeless men sat down on the bench next to Marianne. They held her hands gently as she tried to bite her nails. One of them bent forward and placed her wedding ring in the empty nest formed by her palms.
She stared at the dull golden band. She had worn it for forty- one years. She had only ever removed it once – temporarily – on her fortieth wedding anniversary. That day she had ironed her grey flowery dress and copied a chignon from a three-month-old magazine she had pulled out of a recycling bin. She had dabbed on a little Chanel perfume, a sample from the same discarded magazine. The perfume had a floral fragrance, and she’d wished she had owned a red scarf. Then she opened a bottle of champagne and waited for her husband to come home.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ was Lothar’s first question. She gave him a twirl and handed him a glass. ‘To us,’ she said.
‘To forty years of marriage.’ He had taken a sip and then looked past her to the table where the open bottle stood. ‘That is an expensive bottle of champagne. Really?’
‘It’s our wedding anniversary.’
‘That’s still no reason to splash out. You can’t just spend my money like that.’
She hadn’t wept right then. She never wept in front of Lothar, only in the shower where he couldn’t see.
His money. She would have loved to earn her own money. She’d worked hard, though; by God she’d worked hard. Recently she had volunteered at a hospice. Her first job had been on her mother’s farm in Wendland, then as a midwife alongside her grandmother, and finally as a housekeeper, where she had actually earned a small salary, until Lothar had married her and barred her from running other people’s households as she had to run his.
She’d been Lothar’s cleaner, his cook, his gardener and his spouse. She’d nursed her own mother, who had lived with them for many years before the old lady had eventually died on Marianne’s forty-second birthday. Until then, Marianne had almost only ever left the house to go shopping – on foot, because Lothar had banned her from taking the car. Her mother had a number of health issues – she often wet the bed – but she could still insult Marianne every day, and Lothar increasingly spent his evenings at the barracks or went out on his own. He wrote his wife postcards from his holidays and sent his love to his mamushka.
Marianne dropped the ring. At the same moment she heard a siren and shut her eyes until the shrill sound drew closer through the city’s winding streets and right up in front of her. The homeless men retreated from the pulsing blue light, and when two para- medics and a small woman carrying a case rushed towards them, the man in the striped top stepped forward, pointed to Marianne, motioned to the Seine and tapped his head again.
He thinks I’m mad, thought Marianne.
She tried to force the same smile she had been giving Lothar for decades. ‘You’re much prettier when you smile,’ he had said after their first date. He was the first man ever to call her pretty, in spite of her birthmark and in spite of everything else.
She wasn’t mad, no. And she wasn’t dead.
She gazed over at the man who had pulled her out of the Seine without her consent. He was the madman. He was mad enough to assume that one only had to survive to thrive.
She let the paramedics strap her to the stretcher. As they lifted her up and rolled her towards the open doors of the ambulance, the stranger with the sky-blue eyes clasped Marianne’s hand. His hand felt warm and familiar. Marianne caught a glimpse of herself reflected in his big dark pupils. She saw her pale eyes, which had always struck her as being too big; her nose, which was too small; her heart-shaped face, and her grey-brown hair. When she opened her hand, her wedding ring lay on her palm.
‘I’m sorry for all the trouble,’ she said, but he shook his head.
‘Excusez-moi,’ she added.
‘Il n’y a pas de quoi,’ he said earnestly, patting his chest with his palm. ‘Vous avez compris?’ he asked.
Marianne smiled. Whatever he was saying, he must be right.
‘Je m’appelle Eric.’ He handed Marianne’s bag to the paramedic. I’m Marianne, she wanted to say, but thought better of it. It was enough that he could tell his friends that he’d fished a mad- woman out of the water. What good was a name? Names meant nothing.
She reached for Eric’s hand. ‘Please. Please keep it,’ she said. He stared at the ring as she returned it to him. The doors of the ambulance closed.
‘I hate you, Eric,’ murmured Marianne, and it was as if she could still feel his rough but gentle fingers caressing her cheek.
Marianne lay on the stretcher; the straps cut into her skin during the drive. The paramedic prepared a syringe and pricked a vein in the crook of her arm. Then he took out a second needle and pushed it into the back of her hand before attaching it to an intravenous drip.
‘I’m sorry they had to call you out for me,’ whispered Marianne, gazing into the paramedic’s brown eyes. The man glanced quickly away. ‘Je suis allemande,’ mumbled Marianne. I am German.
‘Allemande.’ It sounded like ‘almond’.
The paramedic laid a blanket over her and began to dictate a report, his words taken down by a young assistant with a beard. The strong tranquilliser began to take effect.
‘I’m an almond,’ mumbled Marianne before falling asleep.
Excerpted from "The Little French Bistro"
Copyright © 2017 Nina George.
Excerpted by permission of Penguin Random House Audio Publishing Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Reading Group Guide
1. What elements of the story line affected you most personally? Was it Marianne’s loneliness? The way she boldly set out on a journey through a foreign country without knowing a word of the language?
2. Which character(s) did you identify with the most and why? Were there any characters that left you feeling perplexed or annoyed? Why?
3. The landscape is as much a protagonist in the book as the human characters (and to some extent, the animal ones). Is there a place, a region, a season in which you feel especially at home? Why? What appealed to you most about the Breton landscape is described—the light, the sea, the rocks, the stillness, the wildness?
4. Food, music and friendship: These are the essential ingredients that help Marianne reclaim her life. What things do you need in order to feel entirely, truly and deeply alive?
5. Religion, superstition and a woman’s wisdom: Some scenes in the book touch on spiritual planes beyond the realm of established religions. What role do such planes have to play in today’s world? How does belief in mythical forces, the invisible world beyond our physical one change the characters in The Little French Bistro?
6. Most often, we cannot change our lives from one day to the next by making only a single decision. Instead, it takes many small steps to explore a new path. What steps did Marianne take in The Little French/Breton Bistro that you were surprised by? Were there other paths you would you have liked to see Marianne take?
7. Love between people who “have a few more years under their belt than others” is rarely the subject of a novel. Why do we sometimes find it difficult to believe that older people are capable of the same insane longings, hopes, relationship troubles or desires as the young? Did you find the depiction of the lifestyles of these characters, most of whom are between 60 and 70 years old, relatable? Surprising?
8. Which of the characters in the book would you like to meet in real life? Where and on what occasion? What would you like to ask them?
9. It’s said that books have the power to heal. They can change lives and cast the world in a new light. Do you have the sense that The Little French/Breton Bistro has given you something that you could use in your life? Another perspective? A different understanding of culture? An idea that you have long wanted to try out in your life?
10. If you had the chance to ask the author a question, what would it be?
11. If the book were to be made into a movie, who would you cast in the different roles?
(Translation by: © Heidi Holzer)
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This is a women's book that men should read. It has heart and soul and reminds us of what is important in life. I thank the author for helping me stay connected to my dreams.
Please note: I received an advanced reader's copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. This did not influence the opinions of my review in any way. The Little French Bistro, by Nina George, takes takes the reader on a journey filled with colorful characters, sensuous food, and bucolic Brittany. I appreciated that it showed love at many stages of life. It was fun and romantic, just the sort of book I love to read in the summer. What I Liked: Characters: Marianne is a wonderfully realistic character. At sixty, she has lost the will to live, or so she thinks. When she tries (and fails) to kill herself, she comes to understand why she feels so trapped, and then slowly finds herself, and her joy. I liked that Marianne became open to life and realized, through being kind to others, that she was worthy of love. As the people in the small Brittany town responded to Marianne, she started to obtain her self-worth. But, like most people, newly acquired confidence is a fragile thing. Marianne still second-guesses herself, and then pushes people away. She is not instantly self-aware, or confident. The small village of Kerdruc, where Marianne finds refuge, is filled with colorful characters, many of whom seem to have missed a love connection. Paul is still bitter over his divorce from Rozenn who has left him for a younger man (oh, the French!), the village bistro's chef, Jean-Remy, is pining away for waitress Laurine, while Genevieve (the hotel's owner) is bitter over a love affair that happened over thirty years ago. With all these missed romantic opportunities, one would think that love never wins, but there is also an example of a long-term marriage that is quite touching. Emile struggles with his wife, Pascale's Alzheimer's but the couple remaine tender and loving. I loved how respectful Emile was of his wife. As much as he wanted to protect her, he also respected her enough to let her be in her own world, without nagging her. Setting: There actually is a town in Brittany, France called Kerdruc. When I looked it up on Google, I was delighted to see that the author's descriptions were spot on! This seems like a charming town to visit. But if you want to go there, I would do so soon. I think this book is going to be very popular, so I would imagine that tourism to this part of France will go way up by next summer. Food: I got caught up in all the marvelous food descriptions. From the fresh seafood to the desserts, my mouth was watering throughout this book. I have never heard of a French Butter Cake, but now I want to make one! What I Was Mixed About: Stereotypes: I will say that the author seemed to rely on various stereotypes of French and German people. All the French characters seemed to be preoccupied with matters of love, while Marianne's German husband was miserly with his money, and his affections. This made me curious about the author, Nina George, wondering if she was French. Given that her last two books are basically love letters to that country, I was surprised to learn that she is from Germany! So much for my assuming anything! Sexy Scenes: While this book is nowhere near pornographic, there are some sex scenes in the book that are quite descriptive. If you are trying to read only "clean" romance, this may not be the book for you. Normally, I tend to back away from these scenes, but I thought they were well-done and needed for a certain character's development.
Charming and insightful; relatable characters with common desires.
Genuinely nice story about a 60 year old woman finding herself and a warm and supportive, yet quirky community. Something I will read again later on.
Age doesn’t matter when reading this story. Food for serious thought about exploring who you are not what somebody else thinks you should be.
Enjoyed Marianne’s journey
A soulful reminder of what life is meant to be.
A sweet love story
Not what I expected it to be in comparison to another I've recently read by this author and really enjoyed;
A sumptuous read.
Married for 41 years, Marianne decides to leave her marriage and life behind. So she set off for Brittany. While there she finds many interesting people. People she will remember forever. They welcome her like an old friend and they all seem comfortable with her from the beginning. Soon Marianne feels like she is rediscovering all the good parts that make her up. I love this book and the joy and warmth that it gives the reader. I had read "The Little Paris Bookshop" and loved it, so I was looking forward to this book. I did not sink into it as quickly but soon I fell in love with this world. I loved taking in the language and the characters. This book may not be for everyone, but it is well worth picking up and enjoying. I was given this book by Blogging for Books and NetGalley in exchange for my honest review.
The Little French Bistro Nina George Crown, Jun 2017 368 pages Women’s Lit, Second-chance Romance Purchased for nook ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ The cover on my ebook was the larger one on the right, but the smaller one on the left above is what nook books on bn.com is showing currently. I like them both, but I prefer the larger one on the right. For this reason: “It was the first decision she had ever made on her own, the very first time she was able to determine the courses of her life. Marianne decided to die. Here and now down below in the waters of the Seine, late on this gray day.” These are the opening lines of the book. The main character of the story has just decided to kill herself while sitting beside the river. It’s a bleak day. She’s made a bleak decision. The first one she’s ever made in her life. The damaged wall and mismatched bistro set suit the situation much better. Ms. George presents a feast for our literary senses in this book. She sends this desperate woman on a journey from the depths of the Seine to a small town named Kerdruc. And the woman, Marianne, does it all on her own, in her own way. She helps people find their way. People help her find her way. She works for places to make some money and helps them out in a pinch. She makes friends along the way. She rescues a few people who have lost their way. And she’s rescued in turn when she loses her own way. She learns that people can be kind. She learns that there is still a life to be lived. That her life might still matter. That what she wants might still matter. That she might still matter. That people like her. That she has worth and might be worth loving. This is done with many, many descriptions of the gorgeous French countryside and fabulous French food. So be prepared to want to eat and drink with this book. Especially seafood. I wanted mussels and good red wine when I was reading it! I highly recommend this book and a glass of wine.
It’s a good story. Starts off strong but the combination of French words with no translation and no real struggle other than life itself leaves much to be desired. Yes I was cheering for the leading character to find her way. I was curious about the lives and such. However, there was much more that could have been explored such as the birthmark and its importance. I felt too many characters were brought into the story so much so that I was losing interest by the time she reaches the main village where much happens.
I was so excited when I seen that Ms George had another book being released. I devoured the Little Paris Bookshop and couldn't wait to read this one. Although the author is fantastic at pulling her readers into the sights and sounds of exotic places, I found this a disappointing read. The main character shows so much strength and bravery in the beginning but then makes choices unfitting for her character. About two thirds of the way through I found myself loosing interest and tempted to skim through sections.
This book opens with Marianne, a 60 something, unhappily married woman, attempting to commit suicide. I was not sure if I wanted to read about another unhappy senior who regrets his/her life, but as I was listening to this story, I thought I would keep going. So glad that I did. This suicide attempt is actually the beginning of her new life. She makes her way to Brittany, France where she meets the most wonderful people and learns to live life again. I loved meeting these characters and getting to know about life in Kerdruc. As Marianne gets to know them, she begins to heal. The real Marianne, who has been buried deep inside, begins to emerge. I want so much to visit and get to know these characters better. I was drawn right into their lives, troubles and all, in order to see how both they affected Marianne and she affected them. I realized this book was about staying true to yourself and becoming the best you can be. Marianne escaped from a hospital to escape her verbally and emotionally abusive husband. I loved Marianne's character, her strength, uncertainty and love for others. Finding love in this quiet, out of the way village was like watching the sun rise. Nina George created a story that makes you feel like anything is possible, as long as you have the courage and strength to go after it. The writing is rich and wonderful, beautiful and poetic. I listened to the audio book and I felt like I was there, listening to the characters speak. I enjoyed this book much more than The Little Paris Bookshop and I enjoyed that one, so this shows how much I loved this one. If you are looking for a book to fall in love with, evoke your emotions and having you wish that it did not end, then pick up this wonderful story.
Finding Femininity and Feminism in France “Does love have to be earned through suffering?” Marianne determines that the Seine is preferable to one more minute of accommodating her husband’s controlling condescension. She walks away from the tour group during dinner to dive into the river, and her husband does not even notice her leaving. A homeless man “steals her death” by pulling her from the water. In the hospital, her husband expresses his concern that her attempt affects him adversely. She again walks away, bent on reaching Kerduc, the seaside town depicted in the nurse’s placemat tile, a town in which she invests her romantic notions of a larger death than her life has been. Circumstances lead her there as if by magic, pulling her into a setting amongst colorful, complicated characters that could have been created by Maeve Binchy. She falls into employment at Ar Mor restaurant, fitting seamlessly into the rhythms of the kitchen. At 66, Marianne begins a new life, of wonder, of real love, of authenticity. Toward the end, the novel gets a bit over the top (with the young waitress Laurine inexplicably removing all her clothing to rescue Jean-Remy’s love letter boats from the water, but maybe that one’s a French thing), yet maintains the integrity of its characters and Breton setting. A woman blooming into a fully realized individual after decades of being an extension of her spouse evokes feminism, when she can see herself as an equal to her lover. Brittany, France, stands proud as a character in this story, new friends emphasizing Breton identity and sharing Breton folklore. Marieanne’s mysterious introduction to the community as “the woman who came from the sea” invokes the legend of Ys, the city swallowed by the sea, and her new love takes her to the magical forest of Broceliande. Although German, Marianne feels at home amongst her new friend, from the little touches, such as her return to playing the accordion, a long-stored instrument given to her by a Breton reluctant to fall for her charms based on memories of the war. She discovers that there are various ways to thwart love and defy romance. In another nod to Maeve Binchy, the ending provides closure without complete resolution, as in real life. There is death, rekindled romance, illness, love rescued, dementia, and new life, with all their complex and tangled emotions. International bestselling author Nina George, after “The Little Paris Bookshop” (translated into 35 languages), again lays out beautiful, complicated relationships in seemingly impossible situations and offers readers wildly emotional connections and absolution as human beings in “The Little French Bistro,” on its way to multiple translations. I was fortunate to receive a copy of this wonderful book through NetGalley.
Simply Delightful! The Little French Bistro The Little French Bistro is a character driven story of tenaciously taking back one’s life and finding friendship and love. It’s about second chances and taking risks. After a lifetime of unhappiness being married to a neglectful husband, Marianne reaches her last straw. She happily looks forward to death as she lays out her clothes in preparation to jump into the Seine in an attempt to commit suicide. When the reader first meets her husband, Lota, it is abundantly clear that anyone married to that self-centered, pompus man might make the same decision. His tight-fisted griping about petty expenses Marianna has incurred while checking the time on his Rolex watch was maddening! A painted tile sets Marianne on an eventful journey to the coast of Brittany. There she stumbles into a job at a little inn with a restaurant. Marianne brings the restaurant and inn to life just as it breathes life back into her. The coincidence of Marianne landing there is looked upon as a gift from fate by her new acquaintances. Each day, she sheds more of her prior life’s weight. As she becomes entrenched in the daily life in the village of Kerdruc, the sixty year-old woman blossoms like a flower bud opening up for the first time. Nina George gives her readers a delightful cast of characters. The locals are quirky and very welcoming. I was completely charmed by each of the Bretons and ensconced in the beautiful descriptions of the area. Their individual stories are told along with Marianne’s. I loved that Marianne not only found herself but also love and appreciation. The Little French Bistro is an emotional read that runs the gamut from sad to mad to glad. It is healing and heartwarming, and it will surely leave readers wanting to travel to the quaint, small towns on the northern coast of France. I enjoyed the artful narration by: Emma Bering
I love her books. Marianne wants to end her life but she discovers she is more than she thought when she is stopped. She travels to Brittany where she finds good people and many types of love. I love Nina George's prose. So many things in the book spoke to me. I could imagine myself as Marianne. What a wonderful book!
Marianne is very unhappy. Well, that’s not quite right…those words do not begin to describe her state. She is in a loveless marriage, as a matter of fact her husband is verbally abusive. And she has had enough! She decides to end her life by jumping into the Seine. A good samaratian saves her. This begins her journey to a new destiny. Marianne starts out as a desperate, mousy woman in need of hand-holding and guidance. But she turns into a lion that ROARS! When she finally runs away she creates a wonderful new life for herself. She has a job, which she was told she could never do. She has many friends, which she was told she could never have. She toughens up and becomes the lady she knew she could be! Did I mention she is in her 60’s when she accomplished all of this! The quaint little French village Marriane takes up residence in, is adorable. I would love to visit it one day. I could just picture it in my mind, the shops, the Bistro. All of it a sanctuary for Marianne and her new self. Because of this village there are many minor characters to keep up with. This is a little rough when you are trying to snatch 10 minutes here and there to read. This book is really about following your dreams. Not letting convention get in the way, whether it is playing the accordion or eating pizza for breakfast. (Read the book for these references!!!) Being true to yourself is so important. I received this novel from Netgalley for a honest review.
beautifully written,allows for adult exploration snd resolution of conflicts, and the discovery of ?ove, passion and connctednessl
Marianne Mesmann, age 60, and her husband, Lothar, are on a tour of Paris. After listening to him blather on all day, she simply walks off towards the Seine and jumps in. Marianne and Lothar, a German couple, have been married for 41 years. After enduring her mother’s constant put-downs, she endures the same from her husband. Not allowed to work, drive a car, or have her own money, the woman is down-trodden. She was helping out at a hospice for some time and saw the peace of those who had just died and wanted that for herself. Thus, her suicide attempt. But, she was “saved,” hospitalized, and escaped. This time, she heads for Brittany on the west coast of France. There she meets friends and works in a restaurant/hotel. The people she meets are all rather quirky like her. She learns some French and some French cooking skills. She becomes involved in the lives of the people around her and discovers that this life is for her. This book was not for me. It is kooky, dark, and boring. I don’t know what the author was trying to get across to readers, but it obviously went over my head. I chose to read this book because I love the Brittany area but I was disappointed. Perhaps there are readers who will “get” the point of the author’s story. Copy provided by NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review.